Well known susok man and numbawan pikinini bilong Misis Kwin recently visited Papua New Guineau. The language there is fantastic, former “pidgin English” tickles the belly, which indeed might be bel hevi when travellers in magimiks bilong Yesus and/or smok balus visit these faraway isles.

Poor old numbawan pikinini was probably flat taia but not belhat when visiting, and didn’t bagarap nor require haus sik after listening to tunes on the liklik box you pull him he cry you push him he cry.

Bigfella iron walking stick him go bang along topsides may have been presented ceremoniously and the ladies had their pen bilong maus handy. Well I’ll scratch my gras bilong fes.

Please check following great linkage for comprehending and proper language reference so you can see I’m not an emti tin. Do read aloud, some of it is quite comprehensible if you think about it a bit. It’s English creole / dialect after all.

Somewhere off a dusty track in the rural backyard of the Stated United American land, Billy Bob waits for customers to his mercantile store.

For years, he wished he had ordered that neon sign to attract people from the nearby highway. Then his electricity went, and his hand-cranked dynamo got a bit difficult to turn what with his arthritis and all, so even his 40 watt bulb that shone several miles out on a good day wouldn’t do much but glimmer like a firefly.

Billy Bob still waits and hopes, and occasionally passing photographers click their shutters and shout a timid howdy. He wonders why his old 35mm film stock doesn’t interest them any more, it was the latest greatest Kodachrome shit when he got it in. Something about an information super-highway and digital (finger?) technology. He just sits back and listens to his old crystal set and wonders what a television might look like in his back room, if ever he could have afforded one and got a young lad to crank the dynamo real fast.

This squirrel has perfected the art of lobotomy by Lambourghini. Look at his carefully prepared dash.

Now I don’t know about you, but the sheer guts to go for it as shown in the animal kingdom is an example to us all. What a turn of speed that little fella has. What a way to get your head truly sorted by a >100mph draft over the head.

Then you can wander around caressing your apathy without looking like you have no get up and go. You’re just disillusioned with life. You have to have the complaining banter to a tee though, but you’ve probably had years of practice.

A youngster cannot claim that asking good questions is better than finding answers. Undergraduate academia is all about answering, for a start. Or regurgitating other people’s questions, if you read philosophy.

Once you are old, venerable and miserable you can get away with it. Young and miserable can’t be done, unless you’re particularly gifted or adored already such as was the case with Jimmy Dean (looked kind of miserable) or Heath Ledger (kind of died in what seem to be miserable circumstances).

You can forget everything that was bad about the past and just cherry pick everything that was ostensibly better than today.

You can look wise when you are in fact still a fool; many an old fool is mistaken for a wise man. Just look at Obi Wan in part IV. (Hint: Yoda was the wise old one. Obi Wan fucked a lot of things up big time). Bonus points for being called Tom or Thomas or Tommy. Then you can get up to a right load of old Tomfoolery.

Oh yes. It’ll be my turn soon. You think you’ve seen it all? You ain’t seen nothing yet. When I go, it’ll be so mind-blowingly devastating, that you’ll regret having started this in the first place. When I go, it’ll be so glorious that ten dimensions won’t contain its majesty, words won’t do its wonder justice, even approximating its prodigious masterstroke will require a supercomputer bigger than the universe running for longer than time itself.

Of course, it’s not my turn yet. No. Not yet. Why is that? Because it’s your turn. Your pathetic, weaselly stinking pile of a turn. Your woeful attempt at some pitiful rotten shab of a turn. Your contemptible nanoscale waste of the word “turn”. Your wretched worthless insult to the rest of us.

Do you even understand how this works? Can you fathom even the basic rules? Do you comprehend? Is that why you struggle? Or is it just that you are overawed by what is to come. Petrified in the certainty of its bold magnificence. Maybe you can indeed grasp it, perceive a glint of what is to come when it’s my turn. My stunning turn. My shocking, glorious, bodacious tour-de-force.